"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Harry dubiously, yet not wishful to offend the old man's susceptibilities. "Of course you know best, George. How many of 'em do you consider they'd be?"
"Five dorgs an' two bitches."
"Good gracious, Nosey!" cried Tom the unlucky, the next moment beating a rapid retreat as the dog-trapper made a vicious dart at his caudal appendage, finally coming to grief over a fallen log which lay in the line of retreat. The pursuing foe, even, had to stop and join in the laugh raised at the ludicrous figure which Tom cut as he lay, head down, heels up.
"Beg pardon, George!" he cried breathlessly the next moment, as he recovered his original position. "It slipped out, old fellow. I—I didn't mean it."
"Come, now, George, that's handsome. You must accept the apology," interjected Joe.
The trapper nodded assent, and the incident passed.
"How do you know what pack it is, George? Blest if I can understand how you find out all these things! First you tell us the sex an' then where they come from."
"Tell it by their paws."
"By their paws! How on earth can you tell they've come all the way from Razorback by their paw marks? Mightn't it be the turkey scrub lot?"
"It carn't be, an' isn't, 'cause I knows the pack."